Wednesday, 11 January 2017

GRINDR: A PROSE POEM by Ernesto Sarezale

He
put me off when he wrote: “You are a great guy. But you shouldn’t use the
headphones you have on your pic.” “Why?” “Because they’re pink!” I almost
blocked him. But I counted to 10. Such hot guy would not normally want to hook
up with me. I typed in a hurry “if you don’t want to meet…” He replied in an
dash: “I do want to meet”. And we met. But it was not easy. First he said he
could not accommodate. I typed: “I can’t at my flat ‘cause I live with my
parents. If we meet, we have to have sex on a couch at my uncle’s unfurnished
flat.” So he soon changed his tune and he said he could host. When I got to his
place, he was shifty: “You know, my flat was untidy.” But that’s not the only
thing that annoyed me about him. Half way through, when he was about to give me
a blow-job, he stopped and he asked: “Are you clean?” I wondered when was the
last time I had had a shower. Did my willy smell? He explained: “Are you tested?” I got what he
meant. “Yes,” I said. Which is true. It was six months ago. But I didn’t tell
him when because he didn’t ask. I almost lost my erection. Gladly, his sucking
was ace. I was soon stiff and ready. When I came, he came shortly after me. And
he annoyed me again. He sprawled on his bed, breathing deep. “I feel so
relaxed,” he said without looking at me, “it feels so good!”. He overdid it,
rapt in his own satisfaction, he was almost falling asleep. So thoughtless.

PAUSE.

It
was sweet, must be said, that he never compelled me to remove my shirt. He said
nothing the moment his hands touched the
body-shaping vest I was wearing beneath. I had put on weight over Christmas and
was feeling self-conscious about the width of my waist. It’s good that he did
not see me with my top off because body-shapers are made for white people and
look very awkward on my dark skin tone. It would have been hard to get rid of
that corset anyway. He was happy to simply strip me off my pants. He wasn’t all
bad. I loved how he stroked my face stubble with his thumb. And when I asked
him, post-coitus, “what’s that thing over there?” he stretched and jumped out
of bed. He showed me with pride an award
he had won as a student back home. He looked back at me. He got close. He
crouched and kissed my soft cock. I warned him: “It will get hard again…”
“That’s OK,” he replied. And I was reminded of how, earlier on, in the thralls
of passion, when almost against my will I shouted “Daddy!”, he looked at my
eyes, put his ear on my chest and said: “Your heartbeat sounds just like the
overture of Rigoletto”.